


Cat Paw Hands

by Aithilin



Series: Fai's Little Secrets [2]
Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurogane knows that Fai's hands are sensitive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat Paw Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Very much inspired by one of the three secrets posted by CLAMP about Fai.

Fai’s hands were sensitive, Kurogane knew this as a fact. He only didn't know _why_.

He thought it may have been the effect of magic being channeled and used— a physical manifestation of pure, static energy forced through skin and muscle and nerves and bone. He remembered the way his mother didn't channel her magic, the way her power gathered in the air around her and dispersed when she no longer needed it. He remembered her illness and the way it was always worse after her work— after her magic— was finished. The way her health left with the sparkling aura, like a price offered up for the use of the power that should have belonged to her already. And even when he was young, he wondered if she would have been stronger if she could focus her magic through a tool.

He had seen Fai move weapons from hand to hand after casting a spell. He had seen the residue of Fai’s power— bright and clinging to its master— spark along blades and arrows. It gave darts colourful tails, and streaked after the thin, thrusting swords Fai favoured. It lashed after whips, and burned the air with every following movement. It left the air singed and crackling hours after the power faded; it left Kurogane with an itch at the back of his neck and the urge to look Fai over for signs of exhaustion and strain. 

And that was just the residue. The faint glow left behind. Fai was more than strong enough to handle the power that flowed through him. 

“Let me see the damage, idiot,” Kurogane would grumble when the battle was over. When things had calmed down and they were left standing among magic-scorched earth and bodies. 

And Fai would laugh and dance out of reach, hands held up to show the unharmed flesh of his palms. He would grin and tease and stay just outside of Kurogane’s grasp and inspection. “Kuro-min worries too much! I'm fine, see?”

Kurogane knew that power like that did not come without a price.

He thought that the sensitivity might come from the struggles of Fai’s childhood. From frost and snow and sun-bleached stone towers. From cliff stones and the bones of his dead subjects. From scars upon scars. From tender, small hands not treated— not healed— before Fai’s sheer determination pushed him to try the impossible again. 

His own scars had healed, but he remembered the tenderness. He remembered the weeks after Suwa when he couldn't hold a sword because of his wound. How Tomoyo’s tender scolding had pushed him towards healers and clean bandages. 

But he remembered the lingering pain— ghosts of the strain of training— before the callouses formed. 

Sometimes, when they were close, intimate— when his own rough hands were trailing along Fai’s solid body— he could see the scars. He could see the lines— jagged, torn— faded with age. But even in moments like that, when he was pressed close, when Fai was open, connecting, the Mage still pulled his hands away. 

The action reminded him of a cat. Particularly the ornery little thing that stalked Tomoyo’s rooms for mice. Even when sleeping, the thing would draw its paws away from the princess’ touch. 

If he was fast (faster than Fai), and lucky, Kurogane could sometimes manage a kiss to palm or wrist before the Mage drew away. Before the distracting kisses and grins and teases pulled his focus back to the blond’s body and lips. And in the quiet moments together, when they just breathed together, rested together, sought out each other’s presence, he would kiss Fai’s wrist and arm, and ignore the teasing his show of affection earned him. 

Kurogane knew, for a fact, that Fai’s hands were sensitive. That he didn't like them touched, or heated, or cooled, or uncovered. He knew that Fai liked gloves and mittens in cold worlds, or long sleeves of light material in warm ones. 

“Don’t hold it like that, idiot.”

Still, Fai would test hot food by lifting a piece to his mouth, his free hand beneath the morsel as it steamed. The instinct was to catch it, if the food fell— as it often did when they reached a world where chopsticks were the norm. And if it fell— hot and streaming— into Fai’s hand, he would drop it anyway. 

“Just let me do it,” Kurogane would grumble. He could test the food. He could even cook, if Fai would just let him (though he knew that Fai liked cooking more— liked the motions and repetition, and the tiny spells he worked into the recipes). But it was always a mess before Fai would relinquish the testing. 

And after the cold water was off, and the redness fading from Fai’s palm, Kurogane would lift the next morsel of food to his own mouth and suffer the questions about salt and taste and texture. He would answer, as always with “it’s perfect.” At least until he had to shove a piece into the idiot’s mouth to let him taste for himself. 

There would be lunches and dinners, where food meant to be held with hands was heated, and he would have to set out the servings. When he played his part in front of strangers and took Fai’s portions and guarded them until they were cool enough for Fai to handle again, all while Fai made a show of scolding him for stealing his food, and kissing him in gratitude later. Dinners where their roles as foreigners would be exploited so Fai could use knives and forks and whatever utensils this world had to eat the heated finger foods they were presented. Where Fai would grin and start an animated story of other worlds and adventures until he could pick up his (much cooler) food, and loudly lament the loss of “freshness”.

Kurogane knew, as fact, that Fai’s hands were sensitive. That they were tender and scarred and surprisingly delicate for the power Fai could wield in them. He knew, that no matter how he approached it, Fai would not let him inspect, or help, or do more than intervene when needed. 

He didn't care about the how or why, just so long as Fai continued to let him help.


End file.
